


If it is my will that he remain until I come, what is that to you?

by HeadInTheStratosphere



Category: Christian Bible, Christian Bible (New Testament)
Genre: M/M, so... I guess I'm writing fanfic for the bible now?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:48:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23891101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeadInTheStratosphere/pseuds/HeadInTheStratosphere
Summary: I walked with him every step to Golgotha. In his footsteps, I followed. I never wavered. Not when they flayed him on the roadside. Not when he lay there unmoving from underneath the unyielding cross. Not when the guards pushed me away with their spears and swords. I told him I’d walk with him. And I will. As he had walked with me.
Relationships: Jesus Christ/John the Apostle, Jesus Christ/John the Beloved
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17





	If it is my will that he remain until I come, what is that to you?

And there he was, my lord and master. My mentor and leader. My friend. My…

I brush the tears away with the back of my sleeve, unable to even think the words. Unable to even entertain the idea of what could have been. The if onlys that once more raced through my head. I force down the bile that threatened to rise again, the now familiar burn a welcome respite from the grief and anger that gnawed at my tired bones.

_That night seemed like such a long time ago, although it has been barely a week, when My Lord woke me before the sun. The other Apostles were still asleep, the inn we stayed in finally silent in the early morning twilight. His eyes glowed by the light of his single candle._

_“Jesus?”_

_Simon Peter turned in his sleep on the threadbare blanket across from us, muttering something, but didn’t wake. My lord turned to Simon Peter, waiting until he had fallen into deeper slumber before turning back to me and nodding. He held out my coat and sandals,_

_“Come walk with me?”_

_I rub my eyes to try to rid of the heaviness before taking the garments with a small smile,_

_“Always my lord.”_

And I did. I walked with him every step to Golgotha. In his footsteps, I followed. I never wavered. Not when they flayed him on the roadside. Not when he lay there unmoving from underneath the unyielding cross. Not when the guards pushed me away with their spears and swords. I told him I’d walk with him. And I will. As he had walked with me.

_I didn’t ask where we were going, I didn’t need to know. All I knew was that he had taken my hand in his, the sluggishness of sleep falling away for this strange giddiness, a sort of lightness, like the morning rays chasing away the dark night. And that was all I needed to know._ _We made our way out of town, the square and marketplace still quiet and empty, hand in hand into the desert. The darkened expanse stretched on and on, the silhouette of gnarled trees prostrating before the rising sun, tinged with the gold of dawn. Long shadows followed in our footsteps. And with each one, My Lord seemed to grow lighter. A spring in his step. His shoulders unburdened. As if the weight of the world were being lifted off him with each step we took. Hand in hand._

His mother Mary gripped my hand even tighter as her beloved son once more collapsed under the weight of the cross and world, as it dug into his shoulder and very soul. I heard a strangled sound, something between a gasp and a groan, before realising— it was me. A pathetic sound of protest. Like a lost lamb without a shepherd. I wipe the tears away, squeezing Mary’s hand as some measly comfort. Unable to tear my eyes away from the bloodied and bruised pile of flesh and bone that is my Lord.

_We climbed up the mountain him and I. The sun grower brighter and brighter in the horizon beyond us. The path became more precarious as we ventured higher. The lack of travellers making the thorns and undergrowth clamouring for the untrodden path. My Lord had let go of my hand as we climbed, rising faster and faster with the eagerness of a small child scrambling up the chair to his father’s lap by the hearth. I ignored the emptiness he left in that space, the way my hand tried to reach for him as he headed off the narrow path, starting up the steep incline of the mountain._

_“My Lord?”_

_He only threw a smile over his shoulder,_

_“I have something I need to tell you, John.”_

_The carefreeness in his voice threw me off kilter for a moment before I too started scaling the mountainside. Where he went I went. The gold of the rocks shone in the mystical dawn light as I grabbed them to steady myself. I had almost reached the top, a plateau by the looks of it, for Jesus had already climbed to the top, when my hand faltered, slipping from a jagged rock, my blood staining it. I gasped in shock, losing my grip and almost slipping the whole way when my Lord caught my bleeding hand in his. Pulling me to safety._

_His brow furrowed in concern slightly as he examined my hand._

_“I’m sorry, my beloved, I shouldn’t have rushed ahead of you. Here…”_

_He sat down on the root of the fig tree, the only vegetation on the plateau, gently pulling me to sit by him. He covered my left hand with his right hand, cradling mine between both of his. Jesus closed his eyes, muttering something under his breath, his mouth moving soundlessly against the low howling of the wind at such a height. His hands were warm against mine, and when he removed them, the wound was gone. He took the edge of his tunic and gently patted my hand dry of blood, leaving only a faint line, stark white against the olive of my palms. A scar. I knew he could have healed it entirely, for he had done it plenty of times when Matthew had cut himself on the fishing nets. But he had his reasons. There was something special about this wound. He brought it to his mouth and kissed the scar. I couldn’t suppress the shiver that ran down my spine at the reverence he seemed to give this action. I did not deserve it. And yet I couldn’t pull away. I didn’t want to._

I watched as he was stripped of his garments, all his worldly possessions, seized by the Roman guards without a care. He did not stop them. He did not protest as they stood him there before the crowd that had assembled. Blood pooling at his feet, flowing in rivulets down his face. Not even when they laid him down upon the cross, he did not say a word. I could barely watch as they drove the iron nails into his flesh and bone. I still think about his anguished cries. I could not stop the tears anymore. Not seeing him there. At Golgotha. The Place of the Skull. Not an inch of him remained unmarred by suffering. From pain. I look down at the scar on my palm. The line a reminder from where he healed me. I looked to his hands now pierced through by the rusted nails. Where he had healed me, who would heal him?

_He pulled me to stand once more, turning away to look at the sun, a golden ball of light and power, now broken the horizon, bearing a new day, bathing the world in a golden light. My Lord stood at the precipice of the plateau, like a mirage, a trick of the light, against the sun. He threw his arms up to the howling of the wind, and for a moment I thought it would be like the Transfiguration, where he too would glow like the sun with a voice like the booming thunder of bygone storms. But he didn’t. He remained a man. A man. My Lord. Both God and man. He turned, reaching his hand out to me._

_“Come John.”_

There he was. On Calvary. Atop the mountain of death and hatred. A man so full of life and love. But only a man. Nailed to a tree and condemned to die. Up until this moment, I grasped to the fleeting hope that perhaps he would stop them. He could do it. If he only said the word. But he didn’t. He carried on. And now? Now I could barely remember what his face looked like without the stain of blood.

_I took his hand without hesitation, walking to the edge, towards him. The view, the way the million grains of sand from earth seemed to glow in the new morning sun, casting long amber and red shadows across the valleys of the desert. In the distance grazed camels and wild antelopes among the low lying shrubs. A rare, meandering stream scintillated like a river of stars in the valley below. It was beautiful._

_“John…” he started, his arm falling to my hip._

_“Yes Lord?” I answer, turning to him._

_“I brought you here because the days ahead of me are… the end is nigh. When we walk into Jerusalem, only a week will remain of my time with you in this life.”_

_“Jesus—”_

_I reach out and cupped his face, his eyes alight with a sort of passion I could not name. He shook his head but leant into my touch._

_“It is true, my beloved, I… I love you John. I love you.”_

_I did not say anything. I did not need to say anything. Instead, I leant towards him, closing my eyes, and pressed my lips to his. He froze, like stone, and for a fraction of a second, I thought I overstepped. But then he burst into life, passionate and heated, insistent hands pulling me against him, his lips moving ceaselessly against mine, synchronised in an age-old dance that no one knew the steps of, only the feeling. We stumbled backwards from the ledge until he had pinned me by the hands against the cool, rough bark of the tree. I let out an instinctual whimper, something between a gasp and a moan and a wordless plea for more._

_But then, as abruptly as the passion came, it left. My Lord, my love, pulled away from me._

_“Lord?”_

_He shook his head and dropped my hands, stepping away completely._

_“I’m sorry John, I can’t,” he turned to the sun, now above the horizon. “My father…”_

_I nodded, swallowing, not meeting his eyes,_

_“I understand my Lord.”_

_Gently, he took my chin, lifting me up to meet his eyes. The love that shone from them. Brighter than the sun. I felt the tears welling in my eyes, blurring my vision. I tried to blink the away._

_“John, you are my beloved. I haven’t loved anyone as I love you. And one day, I will give you everything I have and am. I promise you.”_

_He kissed me once more, this time gentle. Quiet. Soft hands against my waist and shoulders. Soft lips against my own, pouring love like wine. I felt lightheaded from it and yet I did not want it to end. All too soon, he pulls away, wiping away the tears I didn’t realise had fallen with the calloused pad of his thump._

_“Promise me, my beloved, you’ll see it through?”_

_Didn’t ask what exactly needed seeing through. But I trusted him. I didn’t need to know. All I knew was that I’d be with him until the very end. No matter what._

And now here we were, the end nigh. The sky was overcast as if it too were mourning. My Jesus. Nailed to the cross. All the other Apostles had left, to prepare for the Sabbath and hide from those who’d crucified our Lord in the first place. But I stayed put, still holding Mary’s hand, still holding vigil over my love, watching the shallow rise and fall of his chest. So still he was. Lifeless almost. But then he lifted his face, the agony of the movement written all over it. He turned to Mary.

“Here is your son,” he rasped.

He turned to me, his eyes meeting mine for the final time,

“Here is your mother.”

His eyes still shined with love. Love for Mary. Love for me. Love for a world that wanted nothing more than to rid of him. I pulled Mary to my chest, holding her as she shared the pain of her son. I met his eyes once more: my lord and master, my mentor and leader, my friend. My love. And then I understood. We could not marry, we could not become a family in that way, for those were not yet our paths. So, until that day comes, this will have to do.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from John 21:22


End file.
